


A Brother's Retaliation

by LadyGlinda



Series: Mycroft Takes Revenge [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, BAMF Mycroft Holmes, Canon-Typical Violence, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, First Kiss, Fluff and Angst, Hospitalization, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, No Eurus Holmes, No Smut, Protective Big Brother Mycroft, Revenge, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-05
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:21:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25727356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock is in hospital after having been shot by Mary. When Mycroft comes to visit him, everything changes.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes/Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & John Watson
Series: Mycroft Takes Revenge [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1867705
Comments: 56
Kudos: 156





	A Brother's Retaliation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wintergreen963](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wintergreen963/gifts), [SlytherinsDragon](https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlytherinsDragon/gifts).



> Written for a prompt by Valenspring567. I hope you like it!

Sherlock was drifting. In and out of his body. Of his life.

No, not quite that anymore. It wasn’t quite as dramatic, he thought with that bit of consciousness that was left or rather: regained. He _had_ been there – on the other side. Briefly. There hadn’t been a white tunnel with long deceased Holmes relatives waiting on the other end. For the better, he thought fleetingly in one of the clearer moments.

He had been saved. By the expertise of people who lived in his mind palace as well as the real world. Molly. Anderson. Mycroft.

He had come back from the dead. This time for real, even though in his _there_ -moments he was vaguely aware that he was still dancing on the edge. But he had fought his way back to life. Thanks to these three or rather their mind-palace-version. And thanks to Moriarty. Who had pointed out that John was in danger.

Mary. The liar. The one who couldn’t be trusted.

He had been John’s best man. Had congratulated him to his choice. He had made a vow to protect John and Mary and their unborn child. And then Mary had proven to be a danger he had missed, and evil instead of reliable. Bad, not good. What would she do to him when he came back to tell the tale? And to John? Had Magnussen kept silent? Was he even still alive?

He couldn’t wake up, not fully. Sometimes he was nearly there, his brain working almost as flawlessly as it had done _before_. But then he was pulled back into the darkness.

There were voices. John. Lestrade. Molly. In the very beginning, he had only been able to hear fragments of what they were saying but the tendency was clear. Predictable. Sentimental.

‘ _You can’t die, Sherlock!’_

‘ _Come back, Sherlock!’_

But to what? To a friend whose wife had dark secrets which a blackmailer had used to threaten her so she had shot at Sherlock when he had disturbed her killing the man? Who had been lying to him all the time? But who still carried his child. John would be devastated instead of worried to the bone about him like he was now.

Molly had been crying most of the time. She had taken to holding his hand. He didn’t like it. They had never been that intimate and he felt uncomfortable about it. But he was lying there like a corpse on her stretcher. There was nothing he could do about it. He couldn’t even twitch.

How much time had passed? Impossible to say. Had he been awake at all? He couldn’t remember. If he had opened his eyes, it had certainly only been for mere moments.

He didn’t notice the inevitable procedures to tend to the transport. Good.

They had all come.

His parents. Mummy had been crying non-stop. Father had been mumbling quiet words of comfort.

Mrs Hudson of course. Had she been talking about biscuits?

He heard Janine. God. She was blaming him. Sounded hurt. Had she really believed he was in love with her? Even though he had even refused to kiss her properly? Why had he done that? Mean move. Disgusting, too – being close to her, as pretty as she was. Girlfriends – not his area.

And there she was – Mary…

He could feel her staring at him from the doorframe. _‘You don’t tell him - John.’_ Her voice was cold as ice.

He shuddered in his cocoon of barely-there consciousness.

One presence was missing, was never there when he was able to notice anything. Busy, probably. The government didn’t rule itself.

‘ _Don’t get involved.’_

Mycroft had warned him to keep away from Magnussen. _‘Not a dragon for you to slay.’_

How right he had been – his big brother.

The smart one.

The cold one.

The one who had, along with Molly, Philip and Jim, guided him back to light – in his usual, contemptuous way.

‘ _You’ve always been so stupid.’_

But that was only Sherlock's mind-palace-brother. The one he had turned to the most in these moments of living or dying.

Always there. Always helpful. Always caring about him, whether his brother wanted to admit that or not.

But he was not here now.

Lestrade showed up, of course, reeking of cigarette smoke, sounding like a man who had not gotten any sleep for days on end. He had told him that he needed Sherlock’s help on some cases, and that he should better finally return so he could tell him and his colleagues at the Met how stupid they all were.

If Sherlock had been able to, he would have smiled at that.

Then John came again. Sherlock recognised his steps. But his friend didn’t say anything. He just sat down on the chair next to Sherlock's bed. He was crying.

Why was he crying? Sherlock was positive that he wouldn’t die.

Oh…

Mary.

Gone.

Dead.

Had she messed with Magnussen again?

The child…

John reached for his hand. To comfort him? Or himself? Why was he not talking?

Yes. Because they thought he couldn’t hear them. Had John given him up? No. He wouldn’t be here if he had. But he had run out of words. He was grieving, not knowing that he was grieving a fantasy. And of course – his baby.

He could go now. John wasn’t in danger anymore…

He was so tired. Ever since he had started fighting Moriarty, he had not gotten any rest. Dealing with the false accusations. Seeing people believing them. The Fall. The mission. And his failed return to a friend who had shown nothing but wrath. Something in him had died that day when John had welcomed him with violence.

Who would miss him? If he let go? Mummy and Father. Molly. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade, of course. And John. Many people.

And still…

How peaceful it would be to give up fighting.

°°°

He had been sleeping, closer to consciousness than all the days before. Must have been days even though it was impossible to say how many.

He was woken up (well, drawn to this spot right under the surface of being truly awake, that is) by steps he had not heard for a while and never in this room. He had ‘woken’ with a start but he calmed down quickly.

‘ _Sherlock.’_

That familiar voice. A voice of composure. Never getting loud. Not even when it was speaking out threats.

It wasn’t now.

And Sherlock knew at once. Knew what Mycroft had done.

‘ _Can you hear me? They are not sure you can. But I think so. You look better. Well, when I say better… Not quite as if you’re close to dying anymore; let’s stick to that.’_

Sherlock heard him coming closer to the bed.

‘ _You wouldn’t have told anyone, would you? John had no idea what happened. Magnussen said he hadn’t seen the shooter, which could have only been a lie. I only had to put two and two together. And I took care of her. You would have just offered to help her, wouldn’t you?’_

Yes. He would have done so. He had made a vow… Why did that seem to be so stupid now?

‘ _She was an assassin. Took me two days to reveal her past. Then she killed Magnussen and was shot by one of his bodyguards. At least that’s what everybody has been made believe.’_

Mycroft's tone was totally indifferent. But Sherlock could hear the wrath beneath that.

‘ _I manipulated the files. The DNA of her child that died with her. Made it look as if Magnussen was the father.’_

Dear God…

‘ _Your friend John Watson is devastated. But he’ll get over it. No loss, huh?’_

No. John would think that Mary (or whatever her real name had been) had betrayed him in every sense of the word. And there was no need to mourn a child that had supposedly not been his. It was a mercy, actually. The mercy of the Iceman.

‘ _In case you wonder about the bodyguard – he was more than happy to jump ship. You were right – I should have taken care of Magnussen before. Elizabeth is very grateful.’_

Was she? A fleeting image of Lady Smallwood showing her gratitude to Mycroft wafted through his mind. He didn’t like it.

‘ _We both know you’ll get into trouble soon again. It’s inevitable.’_ Mycroft sounded rather grim now. But also kind of fond, whatever sense that made. _‘So it’s good to be owed a favour,’_ he added.

Ah. Not that kind of gratitude then. Good. Why was it good?

Sherlock stirred when Mycroft sat down. On the bed. And took his hand. An overload of feelings followed this action. Mycroft’s hand was soft and warm and strong. Sherlock could smell his eau de cologne. He could feel the warmth of his body radiating.

‘ _I won’t allow it, Sherlock.’_ Mycroft sounded fierce now. His voice was hoarse. _‘I won’t allow anyone to harm you. And I won’t allow you to forgive them above all. I know you would have done so. But it was such a close call. You’ve been literally dead. The doctors had given you up already before you miraculously came back. And you know what? Your loss would have broken my heart, and I won’t have that.’_

With this he abruptly got up and left, as if he was embarrassed by his own words to an unconscious man. And before Sherlock drifted away once more, he could still feel the grip of Mycroft's hand.

Molly was there when he opened his eyes. He saw her beam at him and managed a weak ‘hello’ before he was gone again.

The next time he woke up, not much later, the room was full of people. A nurse. John, looking like death warmed up. Lestrade. Molly again.

Everybody talked to him. He was unable to focus on what they said. He was still so tired. His chest was feeling weird. There was no pain – he was on morphine. But it felt as if the bullet was still inside him. Which it certainly was not. His mind was a mess. The drugs.

They all patted him. Pressed his hand. He didn’t mind.

But his eyes kept looking for the one person he longed to see but that was not there.

°°°

The next day, John told him about Mary. Sherlock feigned surprise. John was upset and sad and angry. But he didn’t doubt the events or the allegedly real fatherhood of the child that would never be born, and he also believed that Mary had killed Magnussen, and he was extremely angry at her for having shot at Sherlock – which he had been told after all. His anger was much stronger than his grief. Mycroft had been right. He would get over it.

He came in the evening, when everybody else was gone. Sherlock had been sleeping most of the day and couldn’t remember any conversation he’d had with anybody except for John.

Leaning against the door frame, he watched Sherlock with serious eyes. He looked tired. Wary. No tie, his jacket crumpled, his watch threatening to fall out of the pocket. There might even be a hint of black stubble on his usually clean-shaven cheeks.

Sherlock raised the hand that was not attached to the drop and waved him in. It was a weak, pathetic gesture and it hurt. Mycroft nodded at him and he slowly walked towards his bed.

“So… back in the world of the living, little brother.”

Had Mycroft’s voice always been so… silky?

“It would seem so,” he rasped out with a voice that had been unused for too long to sound natural. He didn’t know what to say anyway. _‘Thank you for killing the woman who shot at me because she didn’t see another way out, along with her unborn child’_?

“I had to do it,” Mycroft whispered, standing next to his bed. “I couldn’t let her get away. And she might have tried to kill you again.”

Sherlock could not rule that out. Mary had threatened him to stay quiet. And eventually, John would have found out. Magnussen would have used his knowledge. And John would have not only been massively hurt about Mary’s lies but also about Sherlock's… It would have destroyed their friendship for good. Now it was able to go on. The wounds of his faked death would probably heal completely. But it would be based on a huge lie. Well, he would take what he could get. John was essential.

“I understand,” he settled for.

“You’re my little brother. Nobody almost kills you and walks away unharmed.” Mycroft actually blushed at his outburst.

If Sherlock had mocked him with being sentimental, Mycroft would have left and not returned. And somehow, Sherlock did not want that. He wanted…

He silently moved his hand forward on the blanket. Mycroft looked at it. And then he stepped closer to the bed and took it. And the moment their eyes met, Sherlock's world shifted on its axis. It felt as if some powerful energy flooded his systems. A kind of energy he didn’t dare name. A _feeling_ he didn’t dare name spread out his heart.

And he could see it in his brother’s eyes, too, in this second when all shields were gone.

The next moment, a nurse came in and Mycroft excused himself. Before he left the room, he looked back over his shoulder, a question in his eyes. And he nodded when Sherlock's look gave him the answer he had been looking for.

_[Do you want me to come back?]_

_[Yes.]_

Mycroft was essential, too. In many more ways than Sherlock would have ever conceded until right now, when he had fallen down the rabbit hole.

°°°

The room had once more been frequented by basically everybody Sherlock knew during the day. He was feeling a lot more awake and alive now but he was still very weak. John gave him the full speech of taking it easy, obeying his doctors’ orders and not wandering around on his own.

His parents were over the moon to see him back in the land of the living even more than everyone else. He felt a bit guilty for his behaviour towards them over the past years.

Lestrade even gave him a few folders with cases he might look at if he felt like it, knowing Sherlock's fear of boredom – and what could be any more boring than lying around in a hospital?

Only that he knew he wouldn’t get bored so easily this time. There was a lot to think about, to concede and accept – overwritten by a certain name.

Mycroft had not shown up all day but had sent a fruit basket of all things. John and Mrs Hudson had made fun of it but Sherlock had caught himself looking fondly at oranges, a large pineapple and some perfectly shaped bananas. There was no card but he didn’t mind.

He had rested a bit during the afternoon, when he had been allowed to. But John had been there most of the time and shooed everybody away when he felt that Sherlock was too tired to cope with people.

“ _I would lock the door and let you rest,”_ he had said, smiling a bit. “ _But everybody’s so happy to have you back. It was very close and everybody was devastated. I can’t believe that Mary did that to you…”_

Sherlock tried to shrug but had regretted it at once as it bloody hurt. “ _I disturbed her shooting Magnussen. And in the end, she didn’t kill me.”_

“ _But she did!”_ John had flared. _“They had to bring you back.”_

In fact, Sherlock had brought _himself_ back as he had thought that John was in danger. But he chose to not mention that. It might have seemed too… romantic? And that wasn’t how he felt about John. John was his friend and he meant a lot to him. But there was no romance involved.

But God help him – he did have romantic feelings for his brother; there was no denying it.

Mycroft arrived when Sherlock was finally alone again, just like the day before. And Sherlock finally realised that Mycroft might not have shown up for the first few days but he had certainly been constantly informed about his well-being. Perhaps there was even a camera in his hospital room. Mycroft had been watching over him. And he had to admit that this fact, that would have annoyed him before, gave him a decidedly fuzzy feeling…

Mycroft looked more like himself today. Impeccably dressed and shaven, his hair neatly groomed, he oozed his usual aura of coolness and superiority. At least on first glance…

His eyes gave him away. His look was not quite as composed. Not quite as confident.

Not that Sherlock blamed him. He had no idea how to act on these feelings. Feelings that had overwhelmed him. Why? Was it some primal reaction to having been avenged by his big brother in the most permanent way possible? Or due to seeing Mycroft with different eyes now? The proof of Mycroft's deep affection for him? It was futile; he knew that. So many smart people had tried to explain this most inconvenient and dangerous feeling of all – love. Sherlock had always believed that it really was some chemical defect but he had started to concede that there could be more to it in the end. He loved John as a friend. He loved his parents in a very basic way even though he never felt the urge to see them. He loved Mrs Hudson, who had become a motherly figure to him which was much more present than his actual mother.

But he knew he had never felt a love like this for anyone else before.

‘ _This isn’t nearly as new to_ him _,’_ he suddenly thought, watching Mycroft come closer very slowly. Mycroft was definitely surprised by Sherlock's obvious feelings – but not by his own.

How had he missed that? And how must Mycroft have felt – being the object of Sherlock's nastiness, unjustified weight jokes and general rejection? It wouldn’t have been pleasant under any circumstances of course, but it had to be much worse if he had been in love with him for God knew how long. His brother had to be some kind of masochist… For him. Sherlock was sure that nobody had ever truly mattered to his brother apart from their parents – and to a much greater scale his nuisance of a little brother. Mycroft had lorded his own perfection over him all his adult life – unthinkable that the British Government would succumb to drugs, chase after criminals and make friends with some common people. But he had loved him. No matter what Sherlock had done to him. And he suddenly remembered with deep shame how he had twisted his brother’s arm and pushed him against the door frame. Yes, he had been high but not that out. He had known what he was doing. He had been so angry at Mycroft for allegedly taking Magnussen’s side and being so arrogant in this situation. But that was no excuse.

How could Mycroft still be here? How could he still love him, in whatever capacity?

His brother narrowed his eyes in confusion for a moment – and then he deduced Sherlock's thoughts, and his expression softened and he looked ten years younger from one moment to the other.

“It’s alright, Sherlock. No resentments, hm? I think we had enough of them for a lifetime.”

Sherlock felt more grateful than ever before in his life. And he voiced it. “Thank you. That’s more than I deserve.”

“So humble. Be careful – I might not recognise you anymore.” Mycroft was standing next to his bed once more, looking down on him with an amused expression in his eyes. His stunning blue eyes.

“Why has nobody snatched you away a long time ago?” God. Had he really said this out loud? It had to be the morphine…

Mycroft looked surprised but then he grinned, and when had Sherlock seen him grin the last time? “I’m afraid I’m too much of a cold fish for anyone to try. You remember what our dear friend Moriarty called me?”

The Iceman… At this point, Sherlock had believed it was a fitting nickname. Just like his own, actually… But of course it was stupid. Mycroft was no Iceman. Not when he, Sherlock, was concerned. Of course – Mary would have probably begged to differ… But Sherlock caught himself not being overly upset about it. And whom did he want to fool – he did not only understand and accept Mycroft's decision to take her out. It had made him fall in love with him, bottom line.

“Would you have let them? If anyone had dared try?” Sherlock had given up trying to contain himself and just said what came to his mind. He had an excuse after all. He had been shot and was being drugged for his own sake for a change.

Mycroft tilted his head, his eyes never leaving Sherlock's. “No,” he eventually said. “Definitely not.”

They said nothing more about the matter on this evening, instead turning to surprisingly comfortable conversations about Sherlock's progress and the latest catastrophes that had happened in the world outside. Neither of them seemed to be up to discussing the unspeakable, and Sherlock felt that it wasn’t necessary anyway. They both knew where they were standing with one another. Well, kind of.

He – and certainly Mycroft as well – was aware that he was living in a strange bubble now. A hospital was a world of its own, ruled by numbed pain, forced motionlessness, embarrassing procedures, mumbling voices from outside the room, strange-tasting food and the faint smell of disinfectant. He couldn’t really work (even though he had looked at one of the cases Lestrade had brought him and texted his solution to the DI) and had very little distraction. In a few days he would be released – back to his life with cases and adventures as soon as he was able to work again. Back to Baker Street, where John would be waiting for him. Because of course John would give up the flat in which he had been living with Mary and move back in with him, to the never-ending joy of Mrs Hudson. And Sherlock wanted him back, naturally. He wanted things to be like they had been before his confrontation with Moriarty. And he was positive that after a while, they would indeed be like this again. He and John against the rest of the world, just like old times.

Only that it would possibly be now he and Mycroft against the rest of the world, too, including John. It wouldn’t be easy to deceive him and Mrs Hudson as they shared a house. But Sherlock couldn’t imagine telling anybody about this. Whatever _this_ would actually be. Would he and Mycroft really become a couple? Was that even imaginable? Mycroft would be risking everything. Damn, perhaps they would even face prison time if it came out. Perhaps Mycroft would never want to do anything but holding his hand though. Would he, Sherlock, even want to do more? He had never given in to those needs of his transport. He had forced them away. And he assumed Mycroft had been doing the same for most of his life. Mycroft was not a virgin. There had been people at university; Sherlock knew that for sure. But since then? He could hardly imagine that Mycroft had wasted his time with sexual encounters when he could have been working instead… Well, they would certainly never get on each other's nerves if they indeed got together. They were both way too busy to spend a lot of time with each other. And the sheer thought of actually having sex with his brother was one to keel over about.

But when Mycroft had sat down on the chair next to the bed, Sherlock had almost automatically offered him his hand again – and his brother had taken it with a smile that didn’t look at all like coming from an iceman, and he didn’t let go of Sherlock until a doctor came in to check on him, and when they had to part, it felt like a loss and it was all the most astonishing.

°°°

Sherlock had been feeling a bit like a suffering emperor in convalescence, placed on the couch of 221B, always a cup of tea, some biscuits and a glass of water with lemon in reach. All his friends came by on the first day, asking if they could do anything for him. John didn’t leave his side except for going to the bathroom or making tea, clearly feeling guilty for Sherlock's condition. As if it had been _his_ fault… It had been Sherlock's choice to use Janine to get access to Magnussen’s office and perhaps he could have handled the situation with Mary differently so it wouldn’t have resulted in a bullet ending up in his chest. _No_ , he decided. She would have shot at him anyway. But John had not known anything about her past; one could argue that he could have been a bit more determined to find out who his wife actually was. And he had brought her into Sherlock's life; so much was sure.

In any way it made no sense for him to feel guilty. He had not shot at Sherlock and yet he seemed to be more devastated about it than Sherlock himself.

His parents had offered Sherlock to stay with them until he had recovered but he had declined this offer with a shudder. He would not survive enduring Mummy’s well-meant care for weeks. He wanted to be at home.

And he wanted to see his brother.

Wisely, Mycroft did not come along on the first day. But they texted with each other. Not about their feelings even though Sherlock assumed it would be easier to discuss them in written form, from a distance. But even this felt too awkward and somehow silly. So they merely stuck to _‘How are you, Sherlock?’_ and _‘How is work, brother mine?’_ and already this felt pretty amazing to Sherlock. It made him feel… warm. And cared for.

Their unbrotherly feelings for each other aside – why had they wasted all those years with bickering and resentment? It was mostly his fault; Sherlock was well aware of that fact. Mycroft had told him often enough to grow up, which had only made Sherlock lash out on him again and again. But of course Mycroft had been right. When was he ever not?

No matter what exactly was about to develop between them – Sherlock made a silent promise to not let their relationship turn that sour ever again. Which would be easier said than done if they really pursued a sexual and romantic entanglement and failed at it.

But somehow he was sure that they would not fail.

°°°

“It’s okay, John. You can go out and get some air.”

John gave Mycroft a suspicious look and Sherlock smiled.

“You can believe him. I’m too weak to be at his throat. And I’m sure he can look after me for a couple of hours.”

Mycroft had chosen a good time for showing up on the second day of Sherlock being at home again. Not accidentally, of course. Did Mycroft ever do anything that hadn’t been planned meticulously? Mrs Hudson attended a birthday party. Molly was at work and so was Lestrade. Now they only had to get rid of John for a while.

And the doctor didn’t look unhappy at the prospect of leaving the flat. He nodded at Sherlock. “If you’re sure. I need to do some stuff in the other flat.” He clearly couldn’t wait to give it up and move back into 221B.

Sherlock didn’t blame him. No good memories there… A marriage based on nothing but lies. A wife who had nearly murdered his best friend after killing God knew how many other people. A lesser man than John would have despaired. He _was_ struggling, but he was strong.

“No problem. I’ll text you if I need anything,” Sherlock assured him.

“And I will stay until you’re back,” Mycroft said. “And I have time this evening so no need to hurry.”

Was it too obvious? Were they insisting too much on being alone with each other?

No. John didn't have a clue. To be fair – nobody would have guessed this in their wildest dreams. Mycroft was his big brother after all, and John was aware that they had planned Sherlock's mission for taking care of Moriarty’s network together so he couldn’t be surprised that the brothers were not really archenemies anymore. Which they had never really been of course.

John only feared that they would get into a row. So it was no surprise to Sherlock when he said, “Well, behave then, Sherlock.”

“I’ll try my best,” Sherlock retorted dryly.

“And let him help you when you have to get up.”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Well, I _am_ a doctor.”

“Who could forget that? You’re reminding everybody every two hours,” Sherlock teased him, and John rolled his eyes.

“I’ll make sure he doesn’t overdo himself,” Mycroft assured John, and finally John gave in and left after providing both brothers with fresh tea.

The silence in the flat was total when the front door had closed behind Sherlock's friend. Mycroft had sat down in Sherlock's armchair and sipped at his tea.

It was an awkward situation. But exciting. It made Sherlock's stomach flip.

Of course they couldn’t _do_ anything, even if they had been so inclined. Sherlock was hardly in the condition for physical activities. But…

“Come closer, would you?”

Mycroft looked at him for a moment and then he nodded. He sat down next to Sherlock, whose legs were resting on a chair. Mrs Hudson had forced him to put a blanket over his body so he would be warm.

“So here we are, little brother,” Mycroft said in this certain tone that made Sherlock feel… agitated? Thrilled?

“Yes,” he croaked, suddenly feeling shy and nervous. Like a thirteen-year-old girl on her first date, probably… Not that he had ever been a thirteen-year-old girl, nor had he ever had a date.

“Are you okay with this?” Mycroft asked cautiously, and he smiled when Sherlock immediately offered him his hand. He took it in both of his long-fingered hands. “So yes. It’s scary though, isn’t it?”

“Very,” Sherlock admitted. “But… I want it.” How bold… But true. There was no backing away. “I guess… it will take me a while to be able to… I mean not only physically but mentally, too, and… maybe I won’t be able to go all the way and… God, how eloquent…”

“It’s okay, brother mine. I do understand you. And there is no pressure and no obligation. You are ready when you’re ready and if not, it is totally fine, too.”

“Kiss me, Mycroft.” It was not a plea. It was an order. Suddenly Sherlock didn't feel nervous anymore. Why had he even? This was _Mycroft_. He would never do anything Sherlock didn't want or demand anything Sherlock wasn’t able to give. He looked down on the hands that were holding his. He was in the best of hands. Quite literally.

“Yes?” Mycroft asked, sounding astonished. “You want that?”

Sherlock looked at him now, and he nodded. “I did brush my teeth.”

Mycroft grinned at that, and then he bent his head and brushed a feather-light kiss onto Sherlock's lips. “Okay?” he asked then, his face merely inches away from Sherlock's.

Sherlock's heart was beating erratically and he could still feel the slight touch. “More,” he rasped out, and Mycroft smiled and pecked him on the nose before his lips searched for Sherlock's again, and this time the kiss was a real kiss, and Sherlock raised his hand to put it onto Mycroft's cheek, stroking his clean-shaven skin with his thumb. He tasted his brother, probed him, his tongue searching for Mycroft's, and the kiss turned into a dance of promise and affection, and when they parted for air, looking into each other’s eyes, Sherlock knew that this was just the beginning of something wonderful and worthy, something he had never expected to experience and would have never done with anyone else. He would need time both physically and emotionally, but that was okay because Mycroft would never rush him.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft mumbled, his lips brushing over Sherlock's cheek now. “My Sherlock…”

And it was sappy and sentimental and Sherlock couldn’t wait to explore his brother. His avenger. His dark knight of revenge. And he knew that there was nothing Mycroft wouldn’t do for him, and when he put his head on his brother’s shoulder and felt Mycroft embracing him, he felt loved and cared for and, though this was exciting and new and fascinating, he realised that he had not felt this calm and secure in all his life.

And they spent the next hour kissing and intertwining their fingers and there were not many words spoken, but when Mycroft left after a rather tousled-looking John had returned, they exchanged a smile behind the doctor’s back – a smile full of mutual adoration and the promise of a future spent together, no matter how difficult it might be.

The End


End file.
